


New Dawn

by angelwarrior



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonish AU, Coworkers - Freeform, Dumbledore is alive, F/M, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Professor Hermione, Romance, Slow Burn, hermione married ron but divorced him and they're still friends, stalking (not between snape and hermione)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-05-01 01:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14509233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelwarrior/pseuds/angelwarrior
Summary: When eighteen-year old Hermione Granger marched down to her Professor’s office to confess her love to him, she had been sure that she would get a job at the Ministry and spend her life working her way up to a prestigious, powerful position. Fate had other plans for her. Eight years later she returns to Hogwarts as the new Muggle Studies professor, and she has to work alongside the man who had rejected her all those years before. But while Snape had no interest in eighteen-year old Hermione, he finds twenty-six year old Hermione very intriguing indeed.





	1. Eight Years Ago

 

Hermione Granger was no coward.

She reminded herself of this as she made her way down into the colder part of the castle, a trembling hand running over the damp stone of the walls. Graduation was tomorrow. She may never have this chance again. Yes, there were risks, but if she succeeded…

Oh, if she _succeeded_. Nights curled up reading beside him, the most interesting conversations, his intense, unwavering focus and attention.

She stopped in front of his door, wrestling with her shaky, stilted breath. She wanted her breathing to be even and calm before she knocked. She wanted to stand tall, to look like the woman that she was, rather than some —

The door opened, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

“Professor!” she said, “I—”

“Miss Granger. Why are you standing outside of my door?” He stood with his arms crossed in the middle of the doorway, as unwelcoming as ever.

The speech she had prepared flew from her mind. “I—Professor Snape, I have to—“ she took a deep breath and clasped her hands behind her back, trying to steady herself. “I wanted to speak with you, if that’s alright.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “I gave you your Outstanding. What more do you want of my life? I’m not writing you any letters of recommendation, you were a —”

“It’s not about that,” she said quickly. “It’s not about school at all.” Her hand darted up to her face for some reason. It was shaking even worse than before, and she quickly tucked it into the pocket of her robes. “I – I wanted to –”

“You steal from my stores, _set me on fire_ , terrorize my existence for seven years with nary a blink,” he snapped “Yet _now_ you’re shaking? What do you believe I’ll do, Miss Granger? Why are you suddenly _so_ frightened?”

“You knew the fire was me?” she blurted.

He stared down at her coldly. “What. Do. You. Want?”

“I-”

“ _Spit it out_.”

“I’m in love with you!”

Snape visibly flinched. She caught only a glimpse of his shocked eyes before he yanked her into his office. “Wait here,” he hissed, and disappeared into his storeroom. He appeared a moment later and shoved a vial into her hand. “Drink it.”

She stared down at it, tilting it so that it caught the moonlight.

“What?”  he sneered, “You’re _in love_ with me, but you don’t trust me enough to —”

She uncorked the vial and tossed it back, holding his eyes defiantly. Hermione slammed the vial down on his desk, the sound jarring in the quiet night. “I don’t need an antidote to a love potion,” she said. “Contrary to what you believe, Professor, I’m not an idiot. My — feelings — didn’t spring up overnight.”

He blinked. Silence stretched between them until it was nearly unbearable. “Miss Granger,” he finally said. “You’re eighteen years old.”

“An adult.”

“No.”

Hot, humiliating tears welled in her eyes. She broke his gaze and stared at the far wall. “It’s not about my age. We’re only twenty years apart. In muggle years, it happens all the time. In wizarding years, it means nothing at all. Why don’t you tell me the truth? What? Are you afraid of being cruel? Why now? Why — how did you put it — why after seven years of _terrorizing my existence_ , are you suddenly unwilling to speak your mind?”

“And what do you think that truth is, Miss Granger?”

“It’s because I’m not beautiful!” It sounded juvenile hanging in the air. Sometimes, though, the truth was just that juvenile. “If I looked like, like Lavender or Cho or Ginny, you would never stand here and tell me I’m not old enough for you.”

His snorted. When she looked up at him again, his eyes were crinkled at the edges.

“You fucking bastard, don’t you laugh at me!” she snapped.

Snape snorted again, shaking his head and looking up at the ceiling in disbelief. “Oh, to be sure,” he said. “If Miss Brown appeared in my office right now, I would ravish her on my desk, is that what you think?”

Hermione deflated, feeling ridiculous and small.

He looked at her again, all traces of humor gone. “Is that what you hoped would happen with you?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Of course not.” He brought a hand up to hold his chin, his dark eyes boring into hers. “When you planned this, you told yourself a favorable outcome was possible. Yet, as you so aptly pointed out before, you are not an idiot. You knew that you would be rejected.”

He took a step towards her, and the scent of sandalwood and parchment came with him. Even now, she wanted so badly to touch him.

“Let’s be very clear about one thing,” he said. “If Cho Chang, or Ginny Weasley, or _Lavender Brown_ ever tried this, I would _not_ be standing here telling them they’re too young. I would’ve shoved them out of my office the second the potion failed to work. An eighteen year old —“

“But twenty years difference —”

 “It’s not about the bloody _difference_. Clearly, if the headmaster at one-hundred and fifteen decided to have a fling with a ninety-five-year-old, it couldn’t matter. This is about your _stage of life_. You are a teenager. I am a grown man. Miss Granger, what sort of relationship did you think we could have, even if I was at all fond of you --- which I am _not_?

  Hermione stared down at her shoes, letting her hair fall forwards to hide her tears.

  “Let me be blunt,” he said, “With other students, I would’ve assumed that they deluded themselves into believing in the possibility of some tawdry fuck against the dungeon wall. But you knew better. Yet you came anyway. Why?”

  It took a moment for her brain to restart after the word “fuck” coming out of that mouth, in _that_ context.

“I needed to know, for myself, that I tried,” she said. “I never — I’d never give up without even trying, and —” she wiped her tears away and forced herself look him in the eye. “I wanted you to know…how much I admired you. Now you do. Good day, Professor Snape.”

  She forced herself to walk normally out of his office and close the door before her tears overwhelmed her.


	2. Eight Years Later

      The Three Broomsticks was just as Hermione remembered it: warm and crowded, with the faint smell of smoke and perfume in the air. Harry and Ron sat besides her at a table in the corner, sipping firewhisky as they watched her _reducio_ her luggage.

      “Are you sure about this, Hermione?” Harry asked. “It’s not too late to back out now.”

       Ron made a face. “I reckon it is, actually. Classes start tomorrow, don’t they? I don’t suppose Dumbledore could find a new Muggle Studies professor by then.”

       Hermione finished shrinking her luggage and tucked the last suitcase into her pocket.  “Honestly, boys,” she said, “You’re behaving as if I’m going to my grave.”

       “You’re going back to school after we escaped it. You’ll be teaching Slytherins too, you know. That sounds worse than a grave to me,” Ron said.

        “And you’ll be eating at the same table as Snape for every meal,” Harry added.

        Hermione tensed. She glanced around for a moment; everyone else was focused on their own conversations, laughing and arguing and flirting.

        “Professor Snape is _not_ that bad,” she said. “It’s entirely possible that we may develop a friendly working relationship.” She doubted the words even as they came out of her mouth.

        “He may not be evil,” Harry said, “but don’t forget he’s still a mean bastard.”

        “’Mione’s pretty mean herself, though, wouldn’t you say so, Harry?”

        Harry shot him a look. “No, not really.”

         “You say that because you’ve never been married to her,” Ron countered, “She’s downright scary in the mornings.”

         Harry pointedly ignored him. “Hermione, I know you love to take on difficult causes, but I don’t think Snape’s had a friend in decades, and for good reason. Just be careful.”

        “I’m always careful, Harry,” she said, and then hesitated. “I don’t really have plans to seek out Professor Snape, anyway. I’m sure he’ll avoid me other than a few snarky comments, and I’ll do the same.”

         Ron nodded, seeing no flaw in that logic, but Harry observed her carefully over his drink. Hermione flushed. When she had returned to the Gryffindor common room, all those years ago, Harry had been waiting up for her. She’d made excuses for her crying, claiming that she had just gone to see the library for the last time and it had made her emotional to think about leaving. He hadn’t pressed her further, but she had always wondered if he knew about her secret.

         She’d never told a soul but Snape himself how she had felt about him.

          Hermione took a deep breath. “Alright. I’d better head out now.”

          Harry pulled her into a hug. “You’ll do great, Hermione. You’re the smartest witch I know.”

          Ron’s hug was more subdued. When he pulled back, he regarded her with something like sadness in his eyes. “It’s funny how life never turns out the way you plan, huh?” He paused, thinking. “But it can still be great. You always were happier at school than anywhere else. This might be exactly what you need.”

          “I’ll write you two constantly,” Hermione promised. “You’ll soon be complaining about how long and constant my letters are.”

           Harry and Ron let out fake groans of protest, remembering all too well how long-winded Hermione could be in her writing. They waved goodbye, and in no time Hermione was making the journey towards Hogwarts with only her thoughts to keep her company.

           This would be the first time in eight years that she would lay eyes on Severus Snape. Since then, Hermione had climbed the ranks at the ministry only to be rudely awakened to the realities of bureaucracy. She’d been married, and then divorced. She’d survived Alexander Dromal, who she truly did not want to think about because his 3-year prison sentence would end in only two short months.

           She’d changed. And yet…just the thought of his full name sent a shiver down her spine and made her heart beat that much faster.

           She caught herself wondering if his gaze was as piercing as she remembered it, or if he still welded his words with that careful precision —

           And yet, those thoughts were useless. _Useless, Hermione,_ she scolded herself. She hadn’t lied to Harry and Ron when she’d announced she intended to avoid him. She would avoid him, take the higher road if he started throwing barbs, and show no shame if he mocked her for her youthful confession.

           And if, while she was living by these foolproof rules, she stopped for a moment to admire the way the cut of his robes accentuated his slim build, well, she was only human.

 

//

 

            “… Therefore,” Dumbledore announced, looking down at the sea of students. “I am pleased to present your next Muggle Studies professor, Professor Hermione Granger.”

            Hermione expected polite applause; the applause she received instead was deafening. Sometimes, she forgot that she was famous, and then things like this happened and reminded her. She sat when it was over, already feeling off balance when heard Snape’s voice.

           “As always, you receive the highest praise for the most unremarkable of achievements, Mrs. Weasley.”

            “Granger, please. Ron and I divorced years ago,” she said. It had been all over the papers; there was no way Snape didn’t know. She wouldn’t even bother to try and get him to call her ‘Professor’. It wasn’t worth the effort.

            “So the golden duo fell apart after all? How… unsurprising, considering the inherent lack on the part of both parties.”

            “Thank you for your observations, Professor Snape. You’ll no doubt be pleased to note that you share an almost identical thought process as Rita Skeeter.”

             The smirk dropped off of his face, and Hermione could tell he was about to say something truly horrible.

             The Headmaster interrupted before he could.

             “Do try to get along,” he said. “You’ll be working together closely for the next several months, after all.”

              Snape shot Dumbledore a suspicious look. “And by that, you mean that we will be colleagues who provide instruction at the same school and eat at the same staff table, but otherwise need not interact at all?”

              “By that,” Dumbledore said, “I mean that I will be asking you to serve as mentor to our Professor Granger as she transitions into her role as Professor.”

               Hermione froze. “Mentor?”

               Dumbledore hummed. “It’s relatively new,” he said, “ but we did go through a similar process with the new Astronomy Professor last year. The hope is that by providing guidance to new Professors, we can eliminate the risk of them leaving within the first year.”

               “That’s all well and good,” Snape snapped, “But why not have Minerva or Filius do it?”

               “I felt it only fair to give you the opportunity. After all, proving that you can juggle the responsibilities of mentoring and teaching will also prove that you can juggle the responsibilities of teaching both potions and defense against the dark arts.”

                Hermione could tell by Snape’s face that Dumbledore had him. That wouldn’t do at all.

               “Headmaster,” she said, “With all due respect, I think I’ll do much better on my own.”

               “Nonsense,” Dumbledore said. “I know Severus can be a bit of a grump at times, but if he gets too stressed and begins expressing it in…a way that you don’t appreciate, you can always come to me to end the arrangement.”

                Hermione raised her eyebrows. Snape’s coveted position as a DADA Professor relied on him proving that he could handle two roles without stress, but Dumbledore was putting it entirely in Hermione’s hands to decide whether or not Snape _was_ stressed.

                Dumbledore went on, outlining the details of the arrangement.

                Hermione could barely listen. She knew Dumbledore had no intention of the arrangement lasting. He was counting on their natural animosity to push Hermione into reporting Snape’s rudeness so that she could be free of the arrangement, and then Dumbledore would have a ready-made, perfectly reasonable excuse to deny Snape the position for years to come.

                One look at Snape let her know that he had come to a similar conclusion. He glared at her and Dumbledore, and then sunk back into his chair with a sneer, entirely disinterested in his food.

                Hermione felt sick. But a small part of her was smug. The Headmaster was underestimating her distaste for being used against her will.

                She was now more determined than anything to ensure the arrangement went perfectly.

                “The staff room will be unoccupied after this meal,” Dumbledore said, “You two can take that time to work out a schedule that pleases both of you. The arrangement should proceed in the same way it was done last year: Severus will observe one of your classes every day, and you will meet for one hour once a week to discuss ways to improve further.”

                Hermione took a moment to consider this. Snape staring at her while she taught would do nothing but make her even more nervous, but she supposed she could get used to anything after enough time. The one-hour debriefings were far more threatening, considering how much the man hated her. That, combined with her residual feelings for him --- well, it was sure to result in her walking away with a bruised heart more than once. And yet…Hermione’s curiosity about the man had never fully been satisfied. Though she doubted he would be very open at first --- or, really, ever, --- throughout the year he might let some things slip that she had never known before. This was an opportunity to know the man on a deeper level than she ever had. Was it worth it?

                “We’ll make the arrangements, Headmaster,” Hermione said.

                Huffing, Professor Snape stood and stalked out of the Great Hall, his robes billowing behind him. Hermione sighed and ate her meal as slowly as possible. She was in no mood to deal with his temper.

                She looked out at the Great Hall, taking in the faces of her new students. There was a group of Ravenclaw second-years --- two girls and one boy-- with faces so mischievous Hermione could see the second coming of the Weasley twins in them without ever having met them. A Hufflepuff boy leaned over, whispering something in the ear of his classmate, and to Hermione’s surprise the classmate leaned over to someone else and shared it, only for them to share it too, and so on --- the gossip highway was starting extra early this semester, it seemed. At the Slytherin table there was a girl sitting far away from her classmates, head buried in a book, and a Slytherin boy with curly blond hair that reminded her of---

                He reminded of Alexander Dromal.

                Nausea and icy fear took hold of her, bone-deep. _Don’t be ridiculous,_ Hermione scolded herself. _You can’t react this way about everyone with blond hair and curls. Especially students who will be In your charge._

                But the reaction was so instant and so intense that Hermione found herself pushing her plate away and standing. The meal was about to end, anyway, so after bidding everyone goodbye she headed for the staff room, hoping Snape had even bothered to come.

                When she arrived he was already standing against the far wall, his hair hiding his expression.

                “I see no reason to continue this farce any longer,” he said, as soon as she walked in.  “You might as well run crying to Albus now. If your Gryffindor sensibilities can’t handle a little lying, I’ll be more than happy to provide you with very real ammunition to use against me, Mrs. Weasley.”

                 Hermione ignored him, sorting through her papers.

                 “I know what the Headmaster intends, and I don’t appreciate being cast as his unwitting pawn,” she said, “That being said, I won’t put up with abuse from you either. Let’s just be cordial. That involves using my actual name, mind you. If you can manage that for a year, Professor Snape, you’ll get what you want.”

                 He hesitated. “And what do you gain from this arrangement?”

                 “I don’t make every decision on the basis of what I can gain from it,” Hermione said. “The Headmaster’s plan is designed to be unfair. I won’t play along with it.”

                  For a short moment he simply stared at her, looking vaguely startled. Then his lips twisted into a sneer.

                 “Of course. I should’ve expected nothing more from the woman infamous for irritating, fake campaigns for fairness that are entirely run to bolster your own reputation and fragile self-image. I suppose this is your new house-elf—”

                  “That is quite enough,” Hermione snapped. “If you’re upset about the headmaster and yet too frightened to go tell off the man that is actually angering you, that’s your problem. Make a meeting with a therapist and tell them all about it. I am not here to serve as your personal stress ball.”

                  Snape’s eyes widened in fury. “Frightened?” he hissed, “How dare you?”

                  Hermione leapt to her feet, chin raised in righteous indignation. “How dare _you?”_

                  He looked about ready to kill her, enough so that Hermione readied herself to whip out her wand, but instead he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him so hard that the entire wall shook.

                  She collapsed back into her chair, shaking. “What a --- _ugh_ ,” she said aloud.

                  A loud thump outside of the room made her jump, startled. Hermione opened the door and peeked out, gasping at what she found.

                  A young girl was slumped against the wall, groaning. Her books and her wand had been scattered across the hall. Three girls turned to run, laughing amongst themselves.

                  Hermione raised her wand. “ _Immobulus_.” The runners froze in place. Hermione ran over to the girl slumped against the wall and helped her up, but the girl yanked her arm away.

                   “Don’t touch me,” she snapped. Her eyes were full of tears. Once she got on her feet, she wrapped her arms around herself and muttered something about wanting to talk to Professor Snape. Only then did Hermione notice her green scarf — Slytherin.

                    “You can talk to me,” Hermione said, “What happened?” She moved to gather the girl’s books and wand. Once they were returned, the girl seemed to relax, just a bit.

                    “You’re Hermione Granger,” the girl said.

                    “I am. And you are?”

                    “Victoria Fisher.” The girl raised her chin defiantly. “I’m a Slytherin. Second year.”

                    “Alright. Miss Fisher, can you tell me what happened?”

                     Miss Fisher hesitated. “I was just walking, and next thing I knew my wand went flying and then I went flying, too. They attacked me.”

                     Hermione frowned. “Do you know why?”

                    “They don’t like me. I don’t like them.”

                    Hermione sighed. “Wait here for a moment, Miss Fisher.”

                    She moved to stand in front of the girls before unfreezing them. They lurched forward, mid run, and stopped just short of crashing into her. When they realized who she was, they stared up at her with wide, frightened eyes.

                    “Professor—”

                    “What is going on here?” she demanded. “And before you lie, keep in mind I saw the entire thing happen.”

                     The assailants, three second-year Gryffindor girls, erupted into panic and started blabbering all at once. After a moment, two of the girls stopped talking, ceding to the most articulate of the group.

                    “Professor, Fisher’s into some really dark, creepy magic. And she’s so rude and nasty. She thinks she’s above everyone else and that she has the right to correct people like she’s the professor. And, and today in the train, she called Emma an idiot.

                “Emma is an idiot! And so are all of you!” Miss Fisher snapped.

                “Miss Fisher, that is quite enough. Ten points from Slytherin for insulting your classmates.” Hermione turned back, taking in the grins of the three other girls. “And fifteen points off and detention for each of you for attacking your classmate.”

                Their grins melted away. “Miss, that’s forty-five points!”

                “Shockingly, I can count. Please remember this before you get the idea that it’s alright for three of you to gang up on one person and attack them. It’s cowardly, and shameful to the spirit of Gryffindor.”

                Groaning, they made to sulk away. Miss Fisher turned, seemingly satisfied.

                “Miss Fisher, please wait one moment,” Hermione called.

                The girl froze.                                                            

                “What they said about The Dark Arts – is that true?”

                Miss Fisher turned back to her, hugging her books, with such a serious look that Hermione was shocked to see it on a twelve-year old’s face.

                “They teach The Dark Arts at Durmstrang, you know,” Miss Fisher said.

                “Durmstrang has quite the controversial reputation.”

                “I know that,” Miss Fisher said, “But you know The Dark Arts, don’t you? I heard you wanted to find out everything about everything. I’m sure you know about all of the dark potions, half the spells ---”

                Hermione sighed and rubbed her face tiredly; the girl wasn’t wrong. “Even Durmstrang doesn’t teach The Dark Arts to second-years,” Hermione said, “And learning without guidance, the way that you’re doing, is asking for trouble. There’s so much magic besides that that you can learn first.”

                The girl’s lips thinned. “So you’re going to report me?”

                Hermione frowned. “You’re not doing anything against the rules. I don’t want to say anything to anyone else.  But I can’t just let a second-year run off self-studying The Dark Arts.”

                “Hogwarts is ridiculous for not teaching it,” Miss Fisher snapped.

                “In that case, perhaps you should consider a move to attend Durmstrang,” Hermione said wryly.

                “I can’t. I’m muggleborn.”  It was obvious the girl hadn’t intended on sharing this information. Her eyes widened as if shocked by her own words, but she barreled on.  “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not evil just because I want to know about things. I haven’t hurt anyone. I tried to help them with tricks I’ve learned with spells and potions, but they’re so arrogant they think someone helping them is an insult, and then they just hate me and go on messing up their stuff! And no matter what, I’m always wrong. Even if I don’t break any rules, I’m bad.”

                “I don’t think you’re bad at all,” Hermione said. “I’m worried about you. Doing this alone…you could hurt yourself, or accidentally hurt someone else, and then all those people that think you’re bad will just use that against you forever, won’t they?”

                “I won’t mess up. I’m smart.”

                “I’m sure you are,” Hermione said. “When I was thirteen, I thought I was pretty smart, too. I got the recipe for Polyjuice potion, stole from Snape, and brewed it in an abandoned bathroom. A strand of my cat’s hair accidentally slipped in, and I ended up in the hospital wing with a tail, whiskers and fur. You can be smart, and do things as correctly as you know how to, and still get hurt. With the Dark Arts, the possible consequences are far more dangerous.”

                Miss Fisher ignored the moral to focus on the details of the story. “Wait, you stole from Professor Snape? It’s so strange that he was your professor, and now both of you are my professors. Was he your favorite Professor, too?”

                A baritone, honey-smooth voice broke the silence, sending shivers down her spine. “I’ll talk to Miss Fisher, Granger. She’s one of mine.” Snape seemed to step out of a shadow.

                Hermione couldn’t help but jump a bit. “Snape. How long have you-?”

                “A while,” he said simply. He gestured to Miss Fisher. “Come.”

                The girl sighed, as if anticipating the lecture of her life. “Yes, Professor.”

                Snape paused. “Granger,” he said, his voice tight, “If you’re amenable, we could meet in the staff room later today to discuss the mentorship.”

                "I’m available in two hours,” Hermione said primly. She actually had nothing to do, but figured she might as well take a moment to regroup before throwing herself into the mess of conflicting feelings that took hold of her whenever she had to talk to him.

                “I’ll meet you there in two hours, then,” Snape said, his robes billowing as he turned sharply and began to walk away, Miss Fisher running behind him.

                “Professor,” Miss Fisher asked him as they made their way away, “What was it like teaching Hermione Granger?”

                “Hell on earth,” Snape answered shortly.

                “It couldn’t have been hell—oh, did she steal your things often?”

                “That’s none of your concern.”

                They stayed in earshot just long enough for Hermione to hear Miss Fisher huff.


End file.
